In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

The person of wisdom is the person of years.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.